


Reichenbach Remix

by alyxpoe



Series: Snippets of Inspiration for Fanfic [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Angst, Brotherly Love, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, I'm sure someone thinks this is cliche, M/M, Naked Men, Post-Reichnbach, Romance, Romantic love, Sherlock's Heart, The Fall - Freeform, True Love, a bow, a wedding, and handcuffs!, but there is a skull!, love love love, men kissing, nicely-dressed men, no rats, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:33:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of how John and Sherlock realized they love each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reichenbach Remix

**Reichenbach Remix**

**Part I: Jumper**

_"I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend,_  
 _You could cut ties with all the lies_  
 _That you've been living in,_  
 _And if you do not want to see me again,_  
 _I would understand._  
 _I would understand."_

John Watson stares up at the tall figure on the roof of St. Bart's, his senses overloaded, still hearing the last song the cabbie was playing on the radio before he got out of it.

He needs to get to his best friend but here he is, trapped, held on the spot by a deep, wavering voice on the line: _John, please do this for me._

_"The angry boy,_  
 _A bit too insane_  
 _Icing over a secret pain_  
 _You know you don't belong."_

But he does belong. He belongs in a world almost of his own making. He belongs in John's world, a world that has been forever sullied by a tight-lipped arrogant bastard of a consulting criminal.

John is helpless for the second time in his life...helpless to do anything for the person who means the most to him.

_"You're the first to fight_  
 _You're way too loud…_  
 _You're the flash of light_  
 _On a burial shroud_  
 _I know something's wrong..."_

John will never ever believe Sherlock is a fraud. He has proven himself time and time again to be, oh so real. And John Watson, MD, ex-soldier for the Queen...he knows real. Seeing those windblown curls on the rooftop…that is most certainly real, too. It was too much and the sound of John’s heart being torn to irreparable bits…

John watches in horror as Sherlock's long, gloved fingers release his mobile phone and then he just....falls.

In his sleep, sheets twisted around his legs, John screams with a gut-wrenching sound that would remind anyone of the days before man harnessed nature and lived in fear of being killed at every waking moment.

His face pours with sweat, his heart pounds against his chest, a living thing struggling to break free…John’s hands tremble now, both of them. He pushes himself free of the bed linens and pads through his tiny flat devoid of any of the clutter that marks it as _home_. He flips on the kettle, glares at the clock on his phone and works hard not to hate life in general.

*

_And well, he's on the table_  
 _And he's gone to code_  
 _And I do not think anyone knows_  
 _What they are doing here._

_And your friends have left you_  
 _You've been dismissed_  
 _I never thought it would come to this_

_And I want you to know_

_Everyone's got to face down the demons_ _  
Maybe today we can put the past away."_

Molly walks out the swinging doors and turns off the little radio on her desk. She slowly and carefully removes her latex gloves. There is a sense of unreality about every single movement. She has been entrusted with a secret she still isn’t sure that she wants, one she thinks about entirely too much…it’s supposed to be buried deep, but it refuses to stay there. With every new body that passes under her hands, she worries that one time it will be him, _for real_. Molly’s job has never been as difficult as it is now, but she is professional enough that things still get completed correctly.

She remembers staying put in her office and waiting as she heard the doors swing and the staccato of footsteps on the cold tile in the hallway…not as quick and dramatic as they had been before, but slow and measured…moving out of her life. Molly knows now that she can trust, however, the voice of someone that had hurt her, but not so deep as he is hurting now, cut off from everything…including the one person who made his life a bit more vibrant.

Molly shakes her head as her low heels click against the cement floor of the parking garage. It has never bothered her to be underground before, but somehow tonight it feels oppressive. She pulls out of the garage as a flash of lightning splits the sky above the road. There is a storm coming and Molly hopes she’ll get home before the rain begins. She pushes the gas pedal a little harder than normal, thinking of a warm fire, a hot kettle and a new paperback.

 

**Part II: It’s All Coming Back**

Until tonight, John Watson had openly avoided 221B. So naturally, the one day he would finally make up his mind to come back and visit, it would be in the middle of a mid-autumn thunderstorm. Still, there have been entirely too many sleepless nights lately and he can barely take it anymore: days have turned to nights and his whole life remains upside down, in stasis. This is a last-ditch effort to clear away the dregs of the past and maybe give him an inkling as to where his future lies.

John has made up his mind and he is going to do what needs to be done.

Nodding firmly to himself, he sets his jaw and opens the door to _their_ no, _the_ sitting room. He stares around, taking in how it all looked so _unchanged_ empty but for the piles that have sat untouched for over a year. Now that he is actually at the flat, it is difficult to decide where to begin. There’s just _so much_ here. The thunder grumbles outside and the single lamp John flips on flickers slightly; he cannot let anything stop him tonight.

John wanders over to the barely-used stereo and blows some dust off of the top of it. He swipes a hand over the front of it and pushes the power button. Its face lights up and he is surprised to see that a CD remains in the machine. He pokes at it a bit until he manages to push "eject" and the tray rolls out to reveal a blank-faced copper-colored CD. Moving into the old kitchen, he is almost instantly rattled by the sight of _Sherlock's_ His flasks and test tubes on the kitchen table. An echo of past voices so loud that he doesn’t hear the click of the CD carrier slotting back into place.

John rubs the palm of his hand over the science equipment to confirm the dust. _Dust is eloquent, John._

He looks down at the grey smudges on his palm and makes up his mind about something, then turns toward the cabinets and rummages around until he finds a small box of rubbish bags. He hauls them out just as another great clap of thunder and lightning make the whole flat as bright as daylight, keeping the ghosts of time at bay for a little while.

As he opens a bag and bends down to start collecting old journals and papers from the floor, the stereo starts just as another peal of thunder rumbles over the flat. Strangely, the music is preceded by a loud thunderclap. It is like hearing it twice. The song opens on a rumble of a motorcycle engine; it is melodic as it floods what empty corners remain of his senses.

_"There were nights when the wind was so cold_  
 _That my body froze in bed_  
 _If I just listened to it_  
 _Right outside the window"_

CRASH! The loudest peal yet. The light flicker and die for a few seconds, all sound cut off in the room save for his own breathing. John feels the darkness as one feels the touch of a lover. It is comforting somehow and he is not afraid anymore. Strange, that. The first time he had ever _not_ felt afraid and useless since...well, just since.

The light pop back to life and the CD resumes almost from where it was stopped:

_"There were days when the sun was so cruel_  
 _That all the tears turned to dust_  
 _And I just knew my eyes were drying up_  
 _Forever…"_

BOOM! This one rattles the windowpanes. John keeps cleaning. In just a couple of moments it has gone from an unwanted chore to something else entirely.

He picks up an old discarded piece of notepaper with only the word "Hope" written on it in a steady, looping, hand. Lightning flashes again outside and the dust motes that fly through the air were beautiful things. In John's mind, he can still see through two windows to where _Sherlock_ …He stood with the cabbie. Without any real conscious thought, Captain John Watson had returned when he was needed most. Right then, none of the implications for the future mattered to him. All that was important was that one life, more important that his own… _A star that should never have been extinguished_. A cruel trick of nature, that.

_"I finished crying in the instant that you left_  
 _And I can't remember when or where or how_  
 _And I banished every memory that you and I had ever made..."_

But that isn't true, not at all. So many memories swarm through John's mind. It is the first time he has felt the relentless buzz of these memories all at once. He has managed to keep them at bay since... _the Fall, John, no one should fear calling something what it really is..._ and tonight they choose to all come back at once, the pictures flashing through his mind…he knows there will be no escaping them. Once the hive is upset, you have to deal with the backlash. There’s no way around this.

John stands for a moment and considers fighting against the onslaught. He was a soldier, he can do this. As the music plays, he finds himself on his knees on the thread-bare carpet, head in his hands, assaulted on all sides from the _memories_ scenes playing through his brain on a loop. Tears pour down his cheeks, he ignores them. The pain he feels has never stopped, not in over a year. He has felt the weight of that pain, _the emptiness,_ every.single.day.

_"There were moments of gold_  
 _There were flashes of light_  
 _There were things I'd never do again_  
 _But then they'd always seemed right_  
 _There were nights of endless pleasure_  
 _It was more than any laws allow..."_

The last line of the stanza burns a bright path through the hot coals of memories. As if on cue, another bolt of lightning flashes dramatically, taking him back to so many nights of sprinting through London with an unregistered weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He sits back onto his feet and wipes his eyes and he would swear that he could feel the familiar weight of it again.

… _Never afraid of the battle...you miss it, Dr. Watson…_

CRASH! The room is lit up again as John jumps to his feet. He slowly makes his way back to the sink and washes his face, the cool water stilling the storm on the inside that matches the one threatening to shake apart the building.

_"There were those empty threats and hollow lies_  
 _And whenever you tried to hurt me_  
 _I just hurt you even worse_  
 _and so much deeper..."_

In the space between thunderclaps, other memories build up, memories of loud voices and angry words hurled back and forth. He knew it was impossible for two people to spend as much time together as he and _Sherlock,_ as...they did and not have some angry words. The detective would cut John down to size when John could not quite keep up. John would retaliate by walking out, slamming the door behind him. Of course, they always came back together in the end, once after three days...but they always worked it out. It had never been _this_ long...

For a few moments, John just lets the storm rage and allow the music to wash over him. It is like standing in a waterfall, the words easing away a bit of the grief and the pain. Maybe now he can finally put these things into the past and try to move forward. John admits to himself, however, that there are some things you really cannot come back from, at least not and still be the same person you were before.

CRASH!

There’s the smell of ozone and then the flat goes dark again. The silence is heavier somehow this time. John knows the room well enough to move toward the sofa without bucking his shin or tripping over anything. He fully intends on just dropping down onto it and perhaps resting until the storm is over.

But there is something... _not quite right_ here…

A fresh bout of lighting rips through the flat. For a second there was nothing and then he... _Sherlock_ ....he is ....he is _there_.

Everything about the lines of that body is instantly familiar to John. Without a doubt, without a question, his feet move him forward toward the figure who is reaching behind himself to close the window he has just crawled through. _Dramatic as ever._

And then he turns and the thunder crashes again, rolling over them. With another burst of lightning, those blazing eyes he has missed so much are boring into the deepest parts of himself. He knows his soul is just as _ragged_ bare to _him_....no, _Sherlock_. There’s no longer any reason to keep his name silent. He is _here_.

In the second before John opens his arms, the taller man flinches. _Of course he expects violence. But now is not the time._ The healing process that has been sped up by the storm and the music is escalating and John could not have hurt Sherlock even if he got down on his knees and begged for John to take everything out on him.

Without warning, the light come back to life and the bulb blows with a tiny spark.

The music, however, trundles on, unimpeded. As the bodies of the two men crash together, there is another earth-shaking rattle of thunder as if the gods are celebrating the return of a figure almost as mythic. _Up on Olympus, the goddess Athena smiles down at one of her own._ John smiles weakly against his own random thoughts.

The next crash outside illuminates their faces moving closer, deeply gazing into one another’s eyes for an instant before their lips meet. The taller figure almost shrinks in size, curving his back and leaning down as far as gravity will allow without falling. Somehow it all feels inevitable. Life-affirming.

One of them clings tightly, the other hangs on, pulling each other closer, closer. As close as they _need_ to be at that moment. John's hands flash in the dim light, one reaching up to bury itself into shaggy dark curls, the other cupping a stubbly cheek. Sherlock's hands just grasping... _I need you so much..._ it is tender and passionate and hurts and wants and most of all, it is necessary. Silently, they vow that no one will ever separate them this way again.

 _"If you forgive me all this_  
 _If I forgive you all that_  
 _We forgive and forget…_  
 _And it's all coming back to me_...  
 _When you see me like this_  
 _And when I see you like that_...  
 _We see just what we want to see_  
 _All coming back to me_  
 _The flesh and the fantasies_  
 _All coming back to me...."_

The thunder cracks against the earth and the window panes rattle in their sashes. The front door opens and a woman screams, dropping a glass plate to the floor where it shatters into a million pieces. The broken glass reflects the lightning and throws it back like diamonds onto the two men who slowly and only slightly part as they turn in unison towards the door. They hold their arms out to Mrs. Hudson and she unquestioningly joins them in their joy.

**Part III: Carry On My Wayward Son**

At the calmest of times, Mycroft Homes is a very busy man. As a rule has always paid very little attention to any type of popular music, instead preferring classical when he listens to anything at all. With his eidetic memory, he generally only has to hear something once to remember every single lyric and the melody that accompanies them. It is strange then that the music and lyrics to a 70s Rock N Roll song would pop into his head at the moment his little brother appears in his doorway on the tails of a stormy autumn night. The song dates several years before Sherlock was born, but it seems oddly appropriate.

Sherlock is framed by the open door, the darkness behind him, his face masked in the half light from outside. The same light creates a halo of sorts around his unruly mop.

"Evidently, you told him, dear brother." What else can he possibly say? Mycroft expects fireworks; all that happens is that Sherlock drops his head. Time stops. He has often wondered how John was going to take a dead man just reappearing in his life after so much time had gone by: there were just too many variables to be one hundred percent certain about any of them.

"Sherlock, I would have helped you break the news to him.” The shaggy mane of black hair just nods wearily.

"How did he take it, then?"

Remaining silent, Sherlock steps into the low light of the sitting room and by the shiner around his eye, Mycroft can deduce the answer. He holds his arms out to his little brother; for a moment they go back in time twenty years and then some. Why is it that each time they have clung to one another it has been due to a terrible circumstance? A death, an overdose, now this.

Sherlock glides into his embrace, falling onto the soft leather sofa and wrapping his thin arms around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft is touched. The heart his little brother claims that he doesn’t possess is shattering in the charged air between them. They have been unable to show any real emotion for so long that this proves beyond a doubt Sherlock's exhaustion as well as the depth of his true feelings for one Doctor John H. Watson. Mycroft is surprised even farther when his baby brother begins to sob against his stomach. He just holds him tighter and hums, for once letting his mind wander.

  
 _Carry on my wayward son_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest,_

_Don't you cry no more._

_  
_Sherlock's sobs are slowing now and he has simply dropped. Mycroft very gently cards his hands through the raven black curls gone to seed. Sherlock has no doubt completed the task he set out to do. Mycroft knows coming home is difficult; maybe even more so than leaving in the first place. Even more difficult has been admitting his own mistakes, his own part played in the entire debacle.

_Once I rose above the noise and confusion_

_Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion_

_I was soaring ever higher_

_But I flew too high..._

_Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man_

_Though my mind could think, I still was a mad man._

_I hear the voices say I'm dreaming..._

_I can hear them say_

_Carry on my wayward son,_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more_

_  
_Mycroft thinks back to when he had Moriarty in custody. At that point, he truly believed that he was helping put an end to this foolishness between the two mad geniuses. As brilliant as he is, even he could not plan for it all backfiring the way it did.

_Masquerading as a man with a reason_

_My charade is the event of the season_

_And if I claim to be a wise man, well_

_It surely means that I don't know_

_  
_Now is the time, then, to make a heartfelt apology to his brother. So many things he has done to protect the other man throughout his entire life. Not only from his own brand of _ennui_ and those around him who could not accept nor understand _who_ Sherlock was at his core, but also from Mycroft himself. He carries on with petting Sherlock's head and Sherlock continues to hang onto his older brother for dear life. They have both made mistakes and with time and John's forgiveness more than anything, they might be able to forge ahead. How can it be that one short, middle-aged ex-soldier slash doctor can control so much without ever trying to do it? Is John even aware of the power?

_On a stormy sea of moving emotion_

_Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean_

_I set a course for the winds of fortune_

_But I hear the voices say_

There have been many instances throughout Mycroft's life where he knew he was leaving his brother behind to chase his own glory. How could he ever take care of another person without the means to do so in a proper fashion? Would he be able to look back on his life at some point and apologize for not giving the boy everything he _could_ have? Someone as extraordinary as Sherlock is—and has always been, even from the first time Mycroft looked into his tiny, scrunched up face—someone like that deserves _everything…_ including someone to love him.

Mycroft closes his eyes and rests his chin on his chest, just allowing himself a moment of misery to truly be sorry for ever attempting to extinguish the light that was Sherlock's genius. 

_Carry on, you will always remember_

_Carry on, none can equal the splendor_

_Now your life's no longer empty_

_Surely heaven waits for you_

_  
_And while humming those words, Mycroft acknowledges that any heaven of Sherlock's would include a John Watson. Rather than dimming Sherlock’s brilliance, John has magnified it, a thousand fold or more. Reflecting quietly so as not to disturb that man still curled up against him, Mycroft is curious as to whether his brother is even remotely aware of that fact.

Quicker than a thought, there is bang on the door, a perfunctory warning before it roughly slams open. John is there on the threshold long enough to pinpoint exactly where Sherlock can be. (Sherlock will find out later that the minute he left the flat at Baker Street, John was right behind him. It simply took a few minutes to catch up.)

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I did not mean any of those things I said to you. Please understand."

Sherlock's renewed sobbing is hushed. He sits up and wipes at his eyes and something inside Mycroft breaks to see a reflection in the movement as so much the child he had been before. That little boy is still in there.

Mycroft's heart breaks, yet again, for his little brother. Sherlock gets up, only a little shaky and within seconds John is in his arms. Mycroft watches them with something akin to awe, knowing that nothing else exists at that moment for either man. Maybe he has been wrong that caring is a weakness, it sure as bloody hell doesn’t look that way now.

Maybe caring and sentiment is like a suit of armor against the outside world, the pain and the hurt from not fitting in. With all the obstacles out of the way now, maybe this will finally heal the broken parts of Sherlock and allow him to be even better than before. It will smooth down some of his edges, and perhaps, if he was lucky, Mycroft might be touched and be permitted to share in some of that light.

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more._

 

**Part IV: Nights in White Satin**

John can't keep himself still. His head is pounding; the very idea that with a burst of energy his best friend is back in his life, almost as quickly as he had stepped out of it. Or _jumped_ out of it, rather.

It’s okay, he can say that to himself now. For a few seconds, standing on the edge of what feels like a panic attack, he takes a deep breath. The London around him looks fresh and new, cleansed from last night's storm. Perhaps everything just seems this way because John feels new and clean. After their spat, it had been almost impossible for John to let Sherlock go last night.

A vague memory of Mrs. Hudson coming through their door and then being embraced in a small huddle with them makes him pause on the pavement. John reflects that he has never felt so glad to be alive like he did in that moment...it was wonderful; he knows that he will never forget it as long as he lives.

After that, his anger resurfaced with the tempo of the storm and he had railed at Sherlock for a time. The words tumbled out of his mouth as if torn from him and his fist connected with that beloved face...well, he wasn't sorry to finally have his emotions out there, but he was sorry he had reacted in such a physical manner towards his best friend. He had even chased him down and was very surprised to be led to Mycroft's house. That was yet another scene that John will never forget. In all the time he had known them, he had only caught glimpses of Sherlock and Mycroft as younger men. What he saw in them both last night was bigger than all of them. He saw fresh and old wounds that had begun to scab over, to finally begin to heal. Why did it take so much hurt to make so many things _right_ again?

He returned to his _temporary_ flat for a bit this morning, mostly to tell the landlord he is leaving, but also to pick up what few things he had that need to be moved back to Baker Street. John is floating a meter off of the sidewalk as Speedy's Cafe comes into view. The windows to their flat are open and he can hear the strains of Sherlock’s violin wafting through them. He shifts his bag to the other shoulder and just stops moving altogether. Even in bright daylight, the sound is haunting. John quickly recognizes the first few bars of music and the lyrics pop into his head. He should question the fact that someone who claims to have no space on his "hard drive" for popular music, especially a song that's over thirty years old--but he doesn't. He has never ceased to be surprised at what has ever come from this man, except for the biggest thing, so why should he start now?

_Cold-hearted orb that rules the night..._

He can't help it, he is actually shaking now. Everything that has happened in the last forty-eight hours is being leveled in the melody streaming from those windows. He drops his bag to the ground, his mind and body transfixed as the violin's lovely voice sings out to the street and ultimately to the city he knows Sherlock has missed.

_Beauty I've always missed with these eyes before_

_Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore_

_  
_It's the chorus, though, that makes him grab the bag of his belongings and rush up the stairs.

_'cause I love you_

_Yes, I love you_

_Oh, how I love you_

He pushes open the door and is immediately mesmerized by the tall, lean figure with the violin under his chin. After all this time, that image in this place again is almost devastatingly wonderful. John can see the muscles working in Sherlock's arm beneath his soft dressing gown as he draws the bow across the strings, deft fingers coaxing the haunting sounds from the instrument.

John can almost hear the thing cry from disuse. His mind is taken back down to the streets below them, long, lonely days when he truly believed he would never feel the rush of excitement again, never hear _that_ voice in his ear as they lean back against a wall watching some criminal nutter and calmly waiting for backup (well, mostly anyway.) He remembers all the words he barely heard from everyone around them, all the side-long glances and then it was all just _gone_.

It can be there again. There will be some rough places that need to be smoothed out, but when you wake up wrapped in someone's arms, when you finally feel the proof of another beating heart under your fingers, you know that your life is right again.

And you learn that it is somehow better than it was before.

_Just what I'm going through, they can't understand_

_Some try to tell me thoughts they cannot defend_

_Just what you want to be, you'll be in the end_

_And I love you_

_Yes, I love you_

_Oh, how I love you..._

_  
_In the back of his mind, where the fantasies live, if he watches Sherlock play hard enough, he can see him dressed in a white tuxedo, an orchestra all around. The lights are turned down low. Sherlock, tall and proud in the middle of it all, plays to John, his fingers reach into John's chest and twist, pull, knead...breaking the mold of his old life and forming it into something brand new.

Sherlock finally opens his eyes as he plays the ending crescendo.

John moves closer, ready for nothing more than to lose himself again in the depths of those green oceans that have held every single promise John has ever made in his entire life. This one he will forever keep.

Sherlock sets the violin down at his feet and John steps into the taller man, those long, lean arms going around him, holding him close. Sherlock is humming and John's mind flashes back to the scene between the Holmes brothers last night. The humming is a comforting sound, without giving away too much feeling to anyone who might be beyond their embrace. It is beautiful and John feels his soul brighten up just that much further. He closes his eyes and leans in, closer, as close as he can get.

Sherlock moves the bow from one hand to the other, finally letting it drop softly next to the violin on the floor. They don't move, but John can feel the music from Sherlock's chest as if it is being broadcast into his own. Sherlock bends slightly at the waist as if he is trying to wrap himself around the smaller man. John looks up and Sherlock captures his mouth in one smooth movement, his big hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, holding him steady with a gentle pressure. This is not a battle of wills, but a reaffirmation of something much larger than themselves.

Sherlock rests his face against the top of John's head. John pulls Sherlock tighter to himself and stands there, listening to the most beautiful sounds in the world: a thrumming heartbeat.

_Nights in white satin,_

_Never reaching the end_

_Letters I've written, never meaning to send_

_Beauty I've always missed with these eyes before_

_Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore_

**Part V: All of Me**

 [](http://s29.photobucket.com/user/dainellemk/media/wedsign_forfic.jpg.html)

 

The hall is decorated tastefully. Crisp light blue linens adorn the tables, matching covers tied with deep purple bows on the chairs. Place settings consisting of white and gold tableware are neatly arranged alongside sparkling glasses and folded napkins.

The large table at the front of the room bears wrapped gifts stacked on either side of it. In the center, between a pair of engraved wine glasses, sits a human skull that has apparently been polished for the occasion. No one argued its addition, after all, it is Hallowe’en. Hanging beneath it, attached to the table is another deep purple bow to which some prankster has added a full-size set of shiny handcuffs.

Said prankster is now standing at the entryway in a navy blue suit paired with black dress shoes and a white cravat decorated with thin light blue and dark violet pinstripes. A navy blue and purple boutonniere adorns his lapel. Greg Lestrade stands speaking animatedly with a man only a bit taller than himself, dressed similarly, except in his hand is a long black walking stick topped with a clear crystal-cut stone. Greg runs his hand through the silver hair at the back of his neck and rolls his shoulders, without a doubt, he is ready for the party.

The auburn man he’s been conversing with turns to face the first of the guests coming through the glass doors. Women, men and children from all walks of life and some still bearing gifts begin to pour through the lobby and into the hall. No one is turned away, no matter their attire or age. Some of these people are part of Sherlock’s Homeless Network, others are former clients, while even less, but most importantly, are the people John and Sherlock choose to surround themselves with. Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock and Mycroft’s parents arrive, taking everything in and looking excited to be there. Perhaps that is just their default setting when they are together, Greg considers as he accepts a hug from one each Holmes parental unit. Mrs. Hudson gives him a pat on the arm and he holds her close for a moment. With a kiss to Mycroft’s cheeks, they stride into the hall arm in arm, followed by a group of twenty-somethings dressed in what Mycroft is certain passes for hipster chic.

Greg shakes hands with a couple of them, pats another one on the shoulder and pretty much smiles like his face is going to break. The group passes between the two men and Mycroft cocks an eyebrow.

“Computer geeks, Mycroft. I’ve learned to use what’s available to me, but that little gaggle right there?” He points into the hall. “Are invaluable. I do believe your brother taught them everything he knows about hacking.”

Mycroft chuckles. “And then some,” he adds for only Greg to hear as more guests file past.

Mycroft reaches into the next group and stops one short, portly fellow with a hand on his shoulder. The man positively beams up at him.

“Mycroft! Good to see you!”

“Quite.” Mycroft answers, shaking the man’s hand. “Doctor Mike Stamford, I’d like you to meet DI Gregory Lestrade, Sherlock’s partner in anti-crime and mine, as well.”

Mike beams again, his smile taking over his whole face. He shakes hands with Greg then suddenly yanks the taller man down to him to hug him and give his back a couple of hearty smacks before he heads into the hall to find his wife and kids. Turns out that his buoyant personality is infections, because the next time Greg and Mycroft catch each other’s eyes, they are grinning like loons.

The hall is packed quickly enough and an expectant lull falls over the lobby, broken by the laughter from the guests. Waiters and waitresses dressed in black tuxes begin filtering in from the back of the hall, handing out drinks and finger snacks. The ushers watch the hall for a moment then turn their attention back to the front door. Just outside, a black limo has pulled up and the driver gets out to open the back door, which, of course, swings open to release a long leg.

Greg laughs out loud and Mycroft bites back a retort, because it is pretty obvious to anyone that Sherlock Holmes is lying flat out on the back seat of the limo. He’s kicked the door and sits up quickly, realizing only now that the car has stopped. Behind him, John Watson climbs out of the other side and moves around the rear of the vehicle to offer his husband a hand.

Mycroft decides right there that the completely besotted expression on Sherlock’s face has been worth every check written to cover bail, every midnight rescue and every single snarky thing the youngest Holmes has ever said or done to his big brother. Greg catches it, too, and steps over to wrap his arm around Mycroft’s waist. The two of them watch as Sherlock stands up then bends towards John so that the doctor can make an effort at getting the detective’s hair back under control.

John finally gives up, which Mycroft and Greg can see when he shrugs his shoulders. Sherlock kisses him again then reaches up with both hands and runs them through his curls, effectively breaking them out of the controlled, slick style from this morning. John turns on his heel and adjusts his black jacket, pulling at the hem. Sherlock whispers something in his ear and John grins up at him. One more kiss and they step towards the door as one.

Greg lets go Mycroft’s waist in order to grab John in a bear hug. There’s lots of back slapping and even a few tears that they both ignore. They break apart in order to watch Sherlock and Mycroft, Greg’s arm over John’s shoulders.

The sight is definitely worth seeing, because Mycroft and Sherlock stand awkwardly for a moment, Mycroft’s hand extended and Sherlock’s arms at his sides. Finally, they break simultaneously and Mycroft hugs his brother.

“I am so happy for you.” Mycroft tells Sherlock in a tone entirely too serious for the occasion.

“I know.” Sherlock states with a smirk as he steps back. Mycroft shakes his head.

Sherlock offers his arm to his husband and John takes it with a grin. Greg and Mycroft move in front of them and after they are seated on opposite sides of the large table, Sherlock and John stop on the threshold of the hall.

A wave of applause and even some whooping from the twentysomething techno-kids bursts forth like fireworks. Sherlock cracks a real smile and John tilts his chin up. Their eyes gleam in the light and not one person in the room can think of a single thing that should ever keep these two people apart.

***

While the applause washes over them, John laughs. Sherlock yanks him in tighter, puts a finger under his chin and kisses the living daylights out of him so that when they come up for air, to more applause, John’s face is red and Sherlock looks like the cat that not only got the cream, but the canary, the tuna, and the catnip. People raise themselves out of their seats as the two men link arms and stride down the aisle between the tables, graciously nodding and acknowledging as many of their guests as possible.

Mycroft and Greg pull out Sherlock’s and John’s chairs respectively and they are seated. The reception kicks off without further effort on their part. More drinks are served, Greg and Mycroft give a speech, together, and that leaves most of their guests either crying tears of mirth or simply crying. There’s barely a dry eye in the room when the music begins.

Sherlock yanks his hand back from where it has been steadily creeping up John’s thigh and John starts in surprise. He frowns at Sherlock but is soon whisked away when the tall man offers him his hand.

Everything falls away from them when the spotlight comes on. A pleasing violin melody winds around the room, strong enough that even the children fall silent. All eyes turn towards the pair of impeccably dressed men on the dance floor as Sherlock takes John’s hand and begins to lead them in a slow dance.

John recognizes the jubilant melody but his brain is taken completely off-line when Sherlock leans down and begins singing in his ear in a voice that is pure sex, his tone mixing soothingly with the violin.

_“What would I do without your smart mouth?”_

_They grin at each other._

_“Drawing me in and kicking me out_

_You’ve got me head spinning, no kidding, I can’t pin you down…_

_What’s going on in that beautiful mind”_

_J_ ohn shudders and forgets to move his feet for three seconds because the tip of Sherlock’s tongue has just brushed against the shell of his ear. Some part of his brain knows that violin all too well.

_“All of me_

_Loves all of you…_

_Loves your curves and all your edges,_

_All your perfect imperfections…”_

Sherlock’s hand moves from John’s waist to cup his arse and then settles on his shoulder, palm spread, right over the scar from the bullet that drove him back to London. Somehow they manage to keep moving in a circle. John has forgotten everything now except for the feel of those hands touching him and the sound of that husky baritone in his ear.

_“You’re my downfall, you’re my Muse_

_My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues…”_

Sherlock cuts himself off by placing an ever-so-tender kiss to the base of John’s neck. John freezes on the spot and runs his hands up Sherlock’s back, holding him in place. Sherlock sings the next line and drops to his knees. No one would ever believe that as much of the day he planned, this is completely unscripted. It is a show for no one but John. 

_“My head’s under water_

_But I’m breathin’ fine_

_You’re crazy and I’m out of my mind.”_

He rests his head for a second against John’s stomach and holds him there. John is reminded strongly of that man who ran to his big brother for help the night John decked him and instantly regretted it—Sherlock begging for someone to make the pain a little easier. John takes a deep breath and cups Sherlock’s chin, turning his face up so their eyes can meet. He kisses him softly, savoring the flavor of their champagne on his lips.

John licks his lips, offers his husband a quick smile and sings.

_“Give me all of you_

_Cards on the table, we’re both showing hearts_

_Risking it all, though it’s hard_

_Cause all of me, loves all of you…”_

He tugs on Sherlock until he is on his feet again, then readjusts their positions so that now John is leading them, soles of their shoes shuffling against the tile. John is all smiles again as Sherlock takes over the rest of the song.

_“You’re my end and my beginning_

_Even when I lose I’m winning_

_‘cause I give you all of me_

_And you give me all of you…”_

When the music fades, Sherlock leans down and John leans up and they are kissing again, deeply this time, enough to embarrass some of the adults and make the children say “Ew, this is boring, let’s have more cake.”

When Sherlock’s fingers begin picking at the buttons on John’s jacket, he knows it is time for them to make an exit whilst it can still be considered respectable. He gives a discreet nod to the DJ who plays them out of the hall with a refrain of the song that just ended. They wave at everyone but John is practically dragging Sherlock towards the doors where their ride is waiting, doors open.

Kissing again, they tumble onto the backseat and remain in a liplock until they arrive at the hotel where they are spending the next several days.

They take their time unwrapping one another and even longer walking the bright, sharp edge of climax. Finally, when they are both satiated and lying together in a heap of sheets and naked skin, John’s head on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock skimming John’s back with his palm, Sherlock opens his mouth and sings:

_“Love your curves and all your edges_

_All your perfect imperfections_

_Give your all to me_

_I’ll give my all to you_

_You’re my end and my beginning_

_Even when I lose I’m winning…”_

John’s eyes slip closed and is lulled into slumber by the voice of his own personal fallen angel. “I love you,” he whispers. He barely hears Sherlock’s response before falling completely under, safe in the knowledge that whatever tomorrow brings, they will face it together.

* * *

 

**Notes:**

_Jumper_ , © Third Eye Blind.

 _It’s All Coming Back,_ sung by Celine Dion, and written by the legend behind Meatloaf, Jim Steineman. This story was also inspired by this fanart: http://sh2jw.tumblr.com/post/26485044098 and this one, especially: http://verity-burns.tumblr.com/image/34917077465 because when I looked at it, I felt my heart stop for a moment and because I could hear the thunder and see the lightning in my mind. It's also the scene it my head that Mrs. Hudson sees when she opens the door.

 _Carry On My Wayward Son_ (C) Kansas/Kirshner Don Music.

 _Nights In White Satin_ (C) Justin Haywood, Moody Blues

 _All of Me_ © John Legend/Gad Songs LLC


End file.
